


The Rent Boy

by holeofholland



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: 80's Music, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Awkward Dates, Band Fic, Beach Sex, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Character Death, Clubbing, Contracts, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Fights, First Dates, Fist Fights, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Graphic Description, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, Hotel Sex, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Prostitution, Rentboys, Rough Oral Sex, Sex Work, Shooting, Shooting Guns, Singing, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Tour Bus, Tour Bus Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28784127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holeofholland/pseuds/holeofholland
Summary: When rent boy Connor is caught sneaking backstage at one of Tom Holland's concerts, a deal is made that will change his life.
Relationships: Tom Holland/Harrison Osterfield, Tom Holland/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	1. The Band Flyer

“Christ, you just get better every time.”

I laugh at the client’s praise as I fall back on his mattress. When my naked body hits the sheets, puffs of dust float up. I whip them away with my hand before accepting a _Pall Mall._ The tip is already burning red so I slip it between my lips and draw. The client does the same and expels thick smoke towards the water-stained ceiling. I let mine swirl in my mouth, savoring the sweetness, before sending it up into his. Two clouds merge into one before disappearing.

I look at the client and take in the sight of his lean, sweaty frame. He’s my third of the night, the first to actually fuck me. And what a fuck it was. He took no prisoners as he railed me over the bed in every position imaginable, as he fisted my hair and repeatedly called me his whore. Now, he lounges back, one arm rested beneath his hand, and stares emotionlessly at the ceiling.

“Counting the leaks?” I tease and nudge the client’s side. I rack my brain for his name but it doesn’t come. Chris? Kyle? Kevin sounds about right but I can’t be sure.

Maybe-Kevin grunts but doesn’t look at me. He stays silent for a moment longer before asking, “How many times have we done this?”

“I don’t know,” I admit before rolling my head and looking out the window. The night sky is clear though it lacks the filter of stars usually sung about on the radio. Fucking Prince.

For a while, I lay in silence with Maybe-Kevin, him surveying the water stains and me wondering why I’m still here. By now, he’d have dressed and handed me a wad of cash twice as big as expected. He’d spank my ass and tell me to lock the door from the inside on my way out. Two weeks from now, he’d find me in his favorite bar and he’d bring me back to this apartment for another round of fun.

“Seventeen,” Maybe-Kevin says abruptly.

I look at his face. It’s uncharacteristically stoic. “What?”

“We’ve done this seventeen times.”

“You’ve counted?”

“Seventeen fucks. Seventeen layover flights. Seventeen excuses to my woman.” Maybe-Kevin sighs and pinches his eyes closed. “Seventeen goddamn nights I’ve spent in this shithole. I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

I flick cigarette ash over the edge of the bed. “That’s your choice but I recall you telling me my ass was tighter than your wife’s.”

“My wife won’t let me fuck her in the ass,” Maybe-Kevin snaps. He softens immediately after. “I just…How long can I do this? She’s bound to catch me, right?”

“She might.” I shrug and sit up. Maybe-Kevin does the same and I rest my hand on his thigh. “But why does that matter? You’re not happy with her.”

“No,” he admits.

“And she’s a bitch from what you’ve told me.”

“Worse than her mother.”

This earns a soft chuckle from both of us. After, Maybe-Kevin meets my gaze and leans in for a kiss. His lips are rough and chapped from his habit of biting them. But they’re sweet and his mouth is even more so. It’s sort of addictive in the way you can’t just have one rope of _Twizzler_.

After the kiss, Maybe-Kevin stands and begins the last lap of the night. He tugs on his underwear and throws on his undershirt. When he reaches for his slacks, a slip of paper falls from a pocket. He doesn’t notice it or me as I grab it until he’s pulling on his coat.

He glances over my shoulder. “Oh, you find that?”

“You weren’t going to show me?”

Maybe-Kevin shrugs innocently. “It’s just a band. A girl at the bar was handing them out.”

“Guess I missed her,” I say before rereading the flyer. The words seem unfathomable.

**THE HOLLAND ROAD BROS**

**ONE NIGHT ONLY**

**THE VILLE @ 1 AM**

**$5 COVER (1/2 OFF FOR A LITTLE SKIN)**

“Why do you care so much anyway?” Maybe-Kevin presses.

“They’re my favorite band,” I explain excitedly, leaping to my knees. “Their music is all over the clubs and it just flows through you. And their lead singer…don’t even get me started.”

Maybe-Kevin cocks a brow at me. “That buzzcut wannabe?”

“Wannabe? Says the guy who probably still listens to Elvis.”

“I’m only twenty-eight, smart ass. Now, I gotta catch a flight. Kiss me goodbye.”

I roll my eyes but inch across the bed to lock in the last of the night’s ritual. As Maybe-Kevin pulls away from the kiss, his hand connects firm with my bare ass cheek. He leaves the room then, echoing the words I’ve heard, apparently, seventeen times before.

I wait a few minutes, long enough that the client is gone, before dressing and heading out into the night. The air is warm tonight which I’m more than thankful for. The mesh crop-top tee shirt I’m wearing wouldn’t withstand the city chill.

Once outside, I quickly make my way to the nearest payphone. There’s one half a block away from Maybe-Kevin’s makeshift apartment. I’ve used it countless times before when getting home from our fucks. Most of the time, I call a cab. And most of the time, they refuse to come out so late. Tonight I call someone different.

The phone rings five times before someone picks up. “Yello?”

“Pix,” I practically scream into the receiver.

My best friend groans. _Actually_ groans. “Yeah?”

“I need a ride.”

“Just get a cab. It shouldn’t be too late.”

“They stop running at midnight.”

“Of course they do.”

Pix moans a little more and I realize it isn’t out of frustration.

“Who are you with?” I ask.

“Just a guy.”

“Is he almost done?”

Pix groans and this time it _is_ frustration. “We’ve just started, babe. He’s digging in down there.”

“Well, shit.”

The line goes nearly silent for a minute, the only sound coming from Pix’s occasional moaning. I’m just about to hang up and abandon my plans for the night when a second voice comes faintly from the receiver. I can’t make out what it’s saying but I know it isn’t good.

“He’s my boy. You’ll get your fucking money back. No, not all of it! Well, fuck you too.” Pix’s voice rises with each sentence until he’s screaming in my ear. Then, as if a switch is flipped, he’s calm.

He speaks soothingly. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. The phone on the corner?”

“Yeah,” I confirm before hanging up.

I step out of the booth then and lean against the wall of whatever building is on this corner. As I wait for my ride, I draw the last bits off my cigarette and stare longingly at the poster advertising Tom Holland and his band.


	2. In the Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics used in this chapter are from Nicholas Hamilton's debut single, "Different Year."

Pix pulls to a stop at the curb in a burnt-orange Miata, the top dropped down and Pet Shop Boys crying through the radio. As I climb into the passenger seat, Pix barely takes notice. He rhythmically taps his purple-lacquered nails against the steering wheel and sings lightly with the music.

_We’ve got no future, we’ve got no past // Here today, built to last._

When I’m settled in the car, I reach to turn the volume down but Pix swats my hand away. I wait silently (and slightly agitated) as the song finishes in a choir of voices. Only then does Pix mute the radio and take off into the night.

“Alright, Con-Man,” Pix says, finally breaking the tension with my nickname. “You wouldn’t have dragged me away from a three-hour just for a ride home.”

“You’re right,” I admit. Pix takes a corner a little too quick for comfort and I gasp. “Jesus, fuck, watch the road!”

I see from the corner of my eye that Pix rolls his. “You act like I don’t know these streets.”

“Oh, I believe you know the streets. This car on the other hand…”

“Martine’s,” Pix fills in. “Fucker was too busy coming down to notice. I’ll have it back to him before he knows it’s gone.”

I mindlessly pick at a piece of skin next to my thumbnail. “Thought he was off the sleet?”

“I did too.” Pix shrugs and I see his jaw tighten. “He’ll end up killing himself and I’ll have to be the bastard to find him.”

“Pix…”

“At least I’ll get a car out of it.”

We both scream with laughter, our voices filling the streets we leave behind.

“You’re such a cunt,” I accuse lovingly.

Pix leans over, eyes still glued on the road, and kisses my cheek. “I know. That’s why you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, the concert.”

“What concert?”

I hold out the flyer and do my best to not let the wind whip it from my grasp. Pix glances at it several times before his face breaks into a wide grin.

“Well, shit, this is definitely worth losing a client.”

We make it to the club in record time. Pix parks on an empty curb across the street – everyone walks to the clubs – before we hurry into a throng of clamoring fans. A majority of them, I notice, are too young to get into the club. They’ll manage it though, through means I know all too well.

Pix takes my hand as he winds through the chaos until the door is in sight. We race towards it only to be stopped by a bouncer. He’s record-breakingly tall and his arms are as thick as tree trunks. His skin is warm under the fluorescent street-lights.

“We’re full,” he states robotically as if he’s said it a hundred times. He probably has, I realize.

Pix isn’t deterred by the scripted order though. He steps forward and bats his eyelashes in that seductive manner only Pix is capable of. I tried it once and Pix told me I looked like I was seizing. I’ve left it to him ever since.

“Full, huh?” Pix coos. He brings a finger to the bouncer’s wrist and tickles the whisps of hair there. The rest immediately stand at attention. “I’ve gotta say, I actually prefer when things are full.”

The bouncer glances down at the top of Pix’s head but remains silent.

Pix continues, walking his fingers up and over the muscles beneath the bouncer’s shirtsleeve. “Don’t you like things full? Clubs. Restaurants. Balls.”

The bouncer clears his throat. He’s cracking.

“Wanna know a secret, Mister Bouncer?” Pix leans up and whispers something into the bouncer’s ear. I can’t make out what it is but I can assume. If my guess is right, I’ll be in the club in less than a minute, without Pix who will be busy elsewhere.

Sure enough, I’m right.

The inside of the club feels like a fever dream. Strobe lights of red, yellow, and purple streak across moving bodies. Smoke billows from machines beside an empty stage. On it, instruments are splayed out, ready to be used. Among them is a drum set, positioned in the back of it all, the bass decaled with the band’s name.

The Holland Road Bros.

My heart leaps when I read the words. Instantly, choruses of their songs play through my head, drowning out whatever synth is being pushed through the club’s sound system. I bop along to them languidly and move into the crowd. It doesn’t take long before I’ve fit myself among the dancing fans. When they sway, I sway. When they lean back and grind into the air, I do the same. Before I know it, three songs have passed, none of which I've paid very much attention to.

I slip from the crowd then, thoroughly worn down from the dancing and drenched in a thick layer of sweat. It shimmers under the strobes and I realize I’m actually coated in glitter, probably from someone’s hair.

It takes some shoving and unwanted ass-grabbing, but I eventually make it to the bar on the farthest right of the club. It’s fairly empty. Only a few people linger on the stools, and only two of them are together. The rest hang their heads over half-empty glasses, probably regretting even coming to the club. I can tell that, for three of them, it’s their first time. They’re dressed in ragged street clothes, something you would wear to impress your grandma. Definitely not the look.

The couple, on the other hand, is dressed better than most of the attendees. The girl, a petite thing with strawberry-blonde hair, sports a zebra-print skirt and white blouse with the top four buttons undone. Her cleavage is prominent and exactly what her boyfriend wants if his incessant kissing there is any indication.

The boyfriend is dressed about the same in a pair of peg-legged black jeans and a wifebeater. His skin is moist and his ass is nearly perfect. I’m nearly tempted to grab it. Nearly.

I wander a little ways from the couple and lean against the bar. A bartender asks me my poison and I tell him – white zinfandel. I don’t know what white zinfandel is but I don’t need to. My real drink of choice is something blue in a glass next to the couple. They’re practically fucking now, the girl’s leg hiked against the boyfriend’s thigh. They don’t see me take the blue drink. Neither does the bartender who, by the time he’s finished making the white zinfandel, finds me gone.

I down the blue cocktail that ends up being a blue lagoon in three gulps before tossing the glass into a nearby plant. By then, I’m near the back of the club, just behind the stage, at a door labeled **DO NOT ENTER.**

So, naturally, I enter.

I find myself in a dimly lit hallway. Immediately, it brings to mind images of _Halloween II._ Were it not for the thumping music muffled behind the restricted door, I might start to imagine Michael Myers turning the corner at the end of the hall.

 _This isn’t a movie though._ I remind myself. _People aren’t just up and killed._

I start down the hall, pushing back any intrusive thoughts and focusing on what I planned to do from the moment I found the flyer in Maybe-Kevin’s (was it Keenan?) apartment. It was a rather clever plan, I thought at the time. Now, I’m not so sure. The stage is empty so the band has to be somewhere, more than likely their dressing room. And considering the plan involves their dressing room, well…

A sound suddenly catches my attention. A voice. Voices. They’re heavily accented. British, most likely. And that can only mean one thing.

I need to hide.

The closest door is at least fifteen steps away. It’s a slim chance I’ll make it before the band rounds the corner but it’s a chance I’m willing to take. While holding my breath, I call back to my days of varsity track and leap towards the door. Just as I slip inside the room and pull the door flush, the voices pass by. Shadows trickle beneath the gap at the bottom of the door but don’t linger. Only when I’m sure they’re gone do I breathe.

I turn then and take in the room. It’s clearly in use. A ragged couch is pushed against one wall. Shirts and jeans are haphazardly tossed upon it. On the opposite wall, a large vanity reflects my image. I draw closer to it and find countless men’s personal care items strewn about – deodorant, cologne, toothbrushes. A few crumpled pieces of paper sit off to the side. Instinctively, I go for one and flatten it on the vanity’s countertop.

_Even my dreams are scared of the light // I’m alright_

I blink at the words clearly meant to be lyrics. They’re a far cry from the carefree thumping the Holland Road Bros usually play. I wonder if it’s even their lyrics, if this is even their dressing room.

Suddenly, the doorknob turns. Before I can think, I stuff the discarded lyrics in my pocket and dive for the closet. I pull the door shut – a wood-slat door, just like Lori in _Halloween._ I’m bound to be murdered.

The dressing room door swings open and in pours the men I never thought I’d lay my naked eyes on. Sam, Harry, and Harrison. And trailing behind, looking as brooding as his album covers portray, Tom.

 _Holy fuck._ I think to myself.

Sam stiffens then and glares at the closet. I realize I’ve spoken aloud.


	3. Caught by the Band

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” Sam curses, dragging me out of the closet by my shirtsleeve. His fingers dig in the mesh and rip it a little. I scold him for it.

“Hey, watch the top!”

Surprisingly, he lets me go and I straighten. In front of me, the rest of the Holland Road Bros stare me down. Each seems to bear a different emotion.

For Harry, it’s peaked interest. His eyes are bugged and he can’t stop looking at my clothes. For Harrison, it’s apathy. He doesn’t seem to pay much attention to my being in their dressing room. He probably thinks I’m just another horny groupie. He’s not completely wrong. And for Sam, it’s loathing. I think were it not for the rest of the group, he might pounce on me.

Tom is the only one I can’t get a read on. He lingers behind Harry and Harrison and watches me unemotionally. His eyes hold no feeling and his lips are pressed in a hard line. His arms are crossed lazily over his chest. He’s as still and blank as a statue, unmoved by anything, even his brother who starts in on me again.

“I asked who you were,” Sam barks.

I shrug innocently. “A fan.”

“A fan?” There’s disbelief in Sam’s tone. “How did you get back here? Did you pay someone off?”

“Sam,” Harry starts but stops when his twin brother begins pacing the room.

“I knew we should’ve let Jake hire the extra security. I told you guys we’d run into creeps like this one.”

“He’s just a fan,” Harrison tries.

“Just a fan?” Sam turns on the band’s drummer. “And would he be ‘just a fan’ had he been hidden in there, planning to jump at you with a knife?”

Harrison sighs and smirks simultaneously then looks at me. “Do you have a knife?”

“No.”

“A gun?”

“No.”

“A pen?”

I make a show of patting down my body. “Can’t say I do. When your clothes are this tight…”

“What are those clothes anyway?” Sam cuts back in.

I eye my now torn crop-top and denim shorts cut a few inches too high above the knee. There are holes patterning the shorts. Through these, you can see my lime green underwear.

I look back to Sam. “They’re clothes. What about them?”

“Not exactly normal style, are they?”

“Maybe not for you.”

Sam’s face reddens. Before he can bite back, Harry steps to his side. “Just cool it, Sammy.” Then, to me. “Why were you back here? And don’t beat around the bush. I can just as easily call security or the police as well as let you talk.”

I gulp, remembering the last time I had a run-in with the police. After watching one of your closest friends be beat near to death and carted off to God-knows-where, you learn not to trust the ones sworn to protect you.

“Connor,” I say. “That’s my name.”

“And I’m guessing you already know us?” Harry asks, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“That I do.” I point as I count off their names. “Sam, Harry, Harrison, and…”

I trail off as I meet Tom’s eyes. They’re dark and even more so under the dim dressing room lights. He has an elbow propped up on a crossed arm now and chews on his thumbnail. His expression doesn’t change but I know mine does. The heat in my face and shorts tells me that for certain.

Harry interrupts then. “And that’s Tom.”

“Right,” I say, biting off the last bit of the word.

“So, Connor, why were you in our dressing room?”

“Uh…” I grasp for an excuse. Truly, I don’t know why I snuck backstage. The plan I devised back in the apartment has vanished from my mind.

“Well?” Sam’s becoming impatient.

“Autographs,” I blurt.

“I asked if you had a pen,” Harrison says.

“Right. And…I don’t.”

I turn then and, before Sam can latch his paws on me, start going through the vanity’s contents. I’m only two seconds in my search when a voice calls behind.

“I have one.”

I look up and meet his eyes in the mirror.

Tom.

Harrison grabs the pen from his best friend. “Alright, what about paper?”

“I have the flyer for tonight,” I suggest before producing it from my pocket.

Harrison takes the flyer and scribbles his signature just above the first line. He passes it off to Harry who does the same and passes it to Sam. He’s reluctant but Sam signs the flyer. It makes its way down to Tom then who seems to take longer than the others. While he does, Sam continues his interrogation.

“How did you get back here anyways?”

“Just walked through the door,” I provide.

“With no one stopping you.” It’s more of a statement than a question. “Well, what about those clothes. Who even dresses like that?”

I open my mouth to speak before I realize Tom’s beat me to it.

“He’s a rent boy,” he explains.

“ _What?_ ” Sam reals back in disgust. “A whore?”

“A whiny bitch?” I counter smartly.

Sam leaps forward then and is pulled back by his twin. Tom continues like nothing’s happened.

“Not a whore, Sam. It’s a job, like anything else you can do in the streets.”

I’m stunned. I’ve never heard anyone explain what I do as Tom has. He understands. He gets it. He respects it. But how does he know?

I ask him such and he replies, “Just a guess. Your clothes. The way you carry yourself. I can see a bit of money sticking up from your shorts.”

I instinctively shove the cash back down. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“We all have to get by in the world.”

“Yeah, but you have a respectable job.”

“My nan might beg to differ there.”

Tom hands me the flyer then, all four signatures covering the printed advertisement. I look it over before stuffing it in my pocket.

“Well, uh, thanks for that,” I squeak. “I guess I’ll get out of here.”

To my surprise, Sam says nothing, probably because his brother is clutching him by the wrist. Tom says something though and it nearly topples me off-balance.

“Can I walk you out?”


	4. Tom's Escort

The day the Holland Road Bros debuted, I was sixteen and sitting on the floor of my parents’ living room. I had a bowl of _Apple Jacks_ in hand and the television turned to _MTV._ Martha Quinn stood in a sleek, black top with her hair scissored to her shoulders. She talked animatedly, as usual, her hands flicking every which way.

“And that was our number five spot. I’m Martha Quinn and I’ve gotta tell you, our next song is a debut from a band that is about to top everything.”

She had my attention. After all, what could top Billy Squier and Pink Floyd?

“Our number four spot goes to the Holland Road Bros. I’m telling you guys, you’re gonna love this.”

The screen dissolved into the start of a new video then. The camera panned down from a gray sky to a rundown loading dock where four teenage boys, predictably my age, armed various instruments. The lead singer, positioned in the center of it all, faced away from the camera. His shoulders were squared. Tense. It was almost as if he dreaded making that turn. I couldn’t understand why though. Because when he turned, I fell in love.

Immediately after the video ended, I clicked off Martha Quinn and hoofed it to the local music shop. I had scraped together what bit of babysitting money I had leftover from the previous week and some change lost in the sofa to buy the Holland Road Bros single. That night, I lay listening to it on repeat, until my continuous rewinding of the tape made a cut in the ribbon. It was only then that I allowed myself to sleep.

Though I dreamed endlessly of him, I never imagined I’d meet Tom Holland. I didn’t think it was possible to be in the same city as him, let alone the same room. Yet, here I am, three years after that debut, being escorted out of a dressing room by the first man to make me speechless.

He holds the door open and allows me to exit first before falling into stride. We walk in silence, the sound of our footfalls on the ground deafening in the void of conversation. I try to keep my eyes ahead but it’s impossible. How can I be expected to not stare at someone like Tom? With his arms as thick as logs and his body hard as steel. That single vein that runs up the side of his neck that, when he licks his lips, pulses. His hair that’s trimmed nearly to the scalp. I bet it tickles when you run your hand over it.

“Alright, here we are,” Tom says suddenly.

Instinctively, I avert my gaze and focus on the stage door. Except, it isn’t the stage door. It’s not even close. The stage door, I see when turning around, is another sixty or so feet away. Tom’s led me further backstage. But why?

“The, uh…” I meet Tom’s eyes. They seem to burn.

“Yes?”

“The door, it’s…”

“Right here.”

I look at the door. There’s nothing spectacular about it. It looks like all the others except there’s a piece of paint chipped near the knob.

“Just step inside,” Tom urges me. His voice is velvety-smooth. It travels from his lips and down my spine.

I turn the doorknob.

Inside, the room is nearly identical to the one we’ve just left. The only difference is the hazards of a rock quartet are missing. The sofa is clean, or what can count for that. There’s an orange stain on one arm and a splotch of something I hope isn’t what I think it is on a cushion. The vanity is fairly clean though a couple of the bulbs lining the mirror are lifeless. I can still see my reflection in it. Tom’s too as he shuts the door behind him.

“Is there a reason you brought me in here?” I ask. I do my best to keep a stoic tone but inside I’m shaking. I know how this works. I know what comes next. A guy leads me away from his friends, off to a private corner. Then he…

“Stand there,” Tom demands, cutting into my thoughts.

“Look, my normal charge is one-twenty-five. That’s for a full—”

“Do as I say.”

Tom’s tone changes and it’s enough to drag me to where he points, in the center of the room. Suddenly, I feel out of place. I hug my arms over my midriff self-consciously and keep my legs tight together. Tom doesn’t seem to notice or, if he does, he doesn’t much care. He just circles my body, his face blank. After three rotations, he stops and picks at the hole on my top.

“Take this off,” he says airily.

“Are we—?”

“You know what, take it all off.”

I keep silent and obey Tom, peeling off my top. The holes made it a bitch to put on but, luckily, it slides right over my head. I shimmy out of my shorts next, careful to keep the night’s profits tucked into the inside pocket Pix sewed for me.

“Shoes too?” I ask.

Tom shakes his head.

I stand then and feel even more vulnerable than before. I’m just about to cross my arms again when Tom scolds me.

“Keep them out, away from your body. Spread your legs too. That’s it.”

Tom resumes his survey, this time craning his neck to see all of my nooks and crannies. I struggle against the urge to cover myself, especially when he keeps his eyes locked onto the dips in my outer thighs and my pooch belly that’s usually disguised by my shorts.

“Can you get hard?” he blurts.

“What?”

“Can you get hard?”

My dick twitches, that’s for sure.

“I…don’t know,” I admit.

Tom nods thoughtfully. “What if I…” He bolts at me and I yelp. His hand cuffs my neck and he presses his lips against my ear. “I want to fuck you until my name is the only word you know. How’s that make you feel?”

Pretty damn good.

Tom steps back and chuckles at the sight of my ramrod dick. I can’t help but join in even if I am still reeling from the sudden burst of energy.

“How big?”

“Six.” I shrug. Average.

“Turn for me. Show me your ass.”

I do, widening my base so I can bend over for Tom. He spanks me then and I yelp. A little bit of precum even leaks from my tip. God, this man.

“Alright, get up. Get dressed.” Top steps back, by the door, and watches patiently.

I do get dressed but not quietly.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“That’s it,” Tom says.

“You’re not going to fuck me?”

“I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Well, you still have to pay for…whatever this was.”

“I’ll pay you. At the end of the week.”

“End of the…what?”

Tom smiles and opens the door. “We’ll have to negotiate your price. But I think we can make it work.”

“Make _what_ work? Damn it, Tom. You have to tell me what you’re talking about. Just because you're some rock star doesn't mean you can dictate my life.” I’m dressed now save for my top.

“Fine,” Tom relents. He looks to mull over his next words carefully, chewing them up until they're soft enough to come out as, “I have a proposition for you.”


	5. The Proposition

“No, absolutely fucking not.”

Sam leans against the dressing room vanity, his arms crossed defiantly over his chest. His breaths come in short, rapid intakes that are obviously a symptom of his anger. For the past five minutes, he’s been arguing with Tom that the proposition isn’t a good one. For once, I have to agree with him.

Tom stays cool throughout the argument. He keeps one hand rested in his back pocket and the other at his side. His face is unchanging as he says, “I don’t see the issue.”

“ _Don’t see the issue?_ ” Sam’s eyes draw into tiny slits. “You’re bringing a fucking stranger onto our bus. We could be killed! Robbed!”

“Is one worse than the other?” Harrison quips from the opposite end of the vanity. He’s peeling off his sweaty tee-shirt and wiping his underarms with it. I can’t help but stare at the hard lines in his stomach.

Sam turns toward the keyboardist of the band. “Yes, you dip shit.”

Harrison shrugs innocently before pulling on a clean shirt, this one a logo-printed hoodie. On the sofa, Harry sniggers. I glance at him and, to my surprise, he smiles. It’s small and I’d miss it if I weren’t searching, but it’s there. Before it can linger, we turn away.

“Look, Sammy,” Harrison begins, waltzing up to Sam and throwing an arm around his shoulders. “It’s Tom’s life. I say let him do what he wants with it.”

“Yeah? And what would Jake say?”

“Jake would be fine with it,” Tom explains. “It’s my life, just as Hazza said.”

Sam’s fuming now. If this were a cartoon, steam would be pouring from his ears. “But it’s not just your life, Thomas! All of us are on the bus.”

Tom opens his mouth then closes it. He looks at me and I tense up. His eyes are so penetrative. They seem to peel me apart. Usually, I’d turn my nose up to being mentally undressed by a man. Not Tom though.

He looks away after a second and says, “Connor hasn’t even agreed.”

Sam looks at me expectantly. I gulp and shake my head. “I haven’t, no.”

“Well, you’ve said no,” he snips, promptly ending the conversation. He yanks free from Harrison’s hold and pushes past Tom and me, to the door. He opens it and takes one last look at the room. “I’m going to the bus. You guys better be there in twenty.”

And like that, Sam is gone. In his wake is a silence quickly punctured by Harry’s child-like giggles. Harrison joins in, crossing the room and collapsing on the sofa. For a moment, I wonder if I should too until I see the set line of Tom’s mouth. It’s a look of, what, sadness? Annoyance? He’s difficult to read. He always has been, from the day I saw him on my parents’ living room television.

“Tom,” I try but he cuts me off.

“Please don’t say no.”

Please? What happened to the demanding guy in the other dressing room, the one who put all my past clients to shame?

I raise an eyebrow at Tom. “What do you mean? Sam already—”

“I don’t care what Sam said,” Tom interrupts again. He’s starting to make it a habit. “I asked you to come on tour with me. I’ll pay you weekly for your services.”

Services. Right. I’m the whore. He’s my client. Nothing more.

I turn and look at Harry and Harrison, the latter of which is now sprawled upside down on the sofa, his head hanging off the cushions. “You guys take Tom’s side?”

Harrison speaks without looking at me. “I don’t trust you and I definitely think it’s stupid, but…”

“But?” I urge.

“But it’s Tom’s life. He can do what he wants. Fuck who he wants.”

“It’s not like Sam has any room to talk,” Harry notes. “Last tour, he banged a chick that followed him to every leg. At the last one, he found out the girl had been driving her parents’ car. She was arrested and he almost joined her when the police found him in her backseat, six-inches deep in her guts.”

Tom groans. “God, the cash that took to keep them from going to the press.”

“You paid the cops off to keep quiet?” I ask. It shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. I’ve done the same too many times to count. Just not with cash…or my hands.

“So, he’s being a hypocrite.” I say it more than ask it. Nevertheless, the room groans in agreement.

“So, that’s why I want you to ignore what he thinks,” Tom says, stepping closer to me. He brushes a loose curl off my forehead and my spine straightens. For years, I pined after Tom Holland, furiously buying every album and magazine. I’d plan clients around his interviews and music video premieres. For all intents and purposes over the last three years, Tom has been my life. So, why do I feel such hesitancy with this proposition?

“Run it by me one more time,” I plead. “I just want to be sure I understand.”

Tom half-smiles. “For the next six weeks, you come on board our tour bus. You’ll accompany me everywhere, kind of like a groupie. Except you’re being paid.”

“And you’ll be…using me?”

“Using is kind of harsh,” Tom reasons. “You’re getting paid for a service.”

“Paid for a service,” I echo, my mind now elsewhere. All I can think about is the six weeks. The places I’ll go. The people I’ll meet. The incredible sex I’ll have. Is it worth it to pack up everything in this city I’ve come to call home, to leave my best friend and all the bottom-hungry clients?

Maybe. But life’s worth taking risks, right? It’s funny, I said the same to my parents when I turned eighteen. _Mom, Dad, I might regret this but…_

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

Tom’s face lights up. It’s the first real emotion he’s shown tonight.

“Thank god,” Harrison moans. “We can leave now. Harry get your shit, you lazy fuck.”

“Go to hell, asshole,” Harry snaps back playfully. It’s a glimpse into the life I’m about to begin, of boys and music and uncensored expression. To be fair, I’ve been living that life for the past two years. There are just hotter guys this time around.

As Harry and Harrison start scrambling for their stuff, Tom draws me closer. His voice is low, so low that only I’m able to hear it. “I promise you’re in good hands with me,” he says.

I nod knowingly. “I know but, also, you’re just a client. Don’t think you have to treat me in a special way, and vice versa.”

“Okay then.” Tom chuckles lightly. “Well, I assume you didn’t come here alone tonight.” How he knows, I’m not sure, but I explain to him about Pix. “Alright, I’ll let you go say goodbye. I’ve gotta wrap some things up with the owner here but someone will walk you out to the bus. Harrison?”

The drummer of the Holland Road Bros peaks at the mention of his name. “Yeah?”

“You mind walking Connor out once he’s said goodbye to his friend?”

“Sure, it’s no problem.”

“Thanks, mate.” Then, to me, “Tonight starts a whole new part of your life. You ready?”

No, I’m not.


	6. A Handy Goodbye

I track Pix down to the club’s bar. When I find him, he’s smiling behind a tonic at the bartender. The bartender says something and Pix laughs. It’s one of his fake laughs, the kind he uses whenever he wants to wrap someone around his finger. Judging by the impressive tent in the bartender’s pants, I’d say the trick is working. Too bad I have to interrupt.

“There you are,” I call over the roar of the club’s music.

Pix turns at once. He eyes me over. “You look worked over. Your plan work?”

I glance over my shoulder at Harrison who stands at the stage door. His eyes are glued to a group of girls giggling a few feet away from him. They beg him to join in their little dance but he politely declines with a shake of the head. He’s more than happy to watch though. I’m fine with that as long as he isn’t watching me.

I face Pix. “Not really. Well, kind of.”

“Kind of. Not really. Which is it, Con Man?”

“Kind of,” I decide. Then, after a second mull. “Well, _a_ plan happened.”

“Not your plan?”

“No.”

Pix downs the rest of his tonic and places the empty glass on the bar. Instantly, the bartender snatches it. “Well, the keyboard guy is standing right there. He’s not the one you like though, is he?”

“Yeah, I noticed. And no. I mean, he’s cute but he’s not Tom.”

“Thought so,” Pix says.

We’re silent for a moment, both of us staring at Harrison and the show before him. I know what Pix is thinking. The girls aren’t swaying their hips correctly. Were it not for having to talk to me, he’d probably be over there holding a lesson on how to seduce a man with your body.

“So, listen,” I finally say, “there’s something I gotta tell you.”

“God, they dance like my grandma,” Pix critiques, completely ignoring me. See? I know what he’s thinking.

“Pix!” I lightly shove my best friend’s shoulder and he looks at me.

“What?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

“So talk.”

I take a sharp breath and wonder why this is so difficult. It shouldn’t have to be. I’ve done things that would make the Golden State Killer cringe. You know, if they ever found the fucker. Still, I can’t understand why after all the things I’ve done, I’m scared to go on a little road trip.

“I’m going away,” I blurt. Better to rip the Band-Aid off, right?

Pix stares at me dumbly. “Going away? Like, a trip?”

“Exactly.”

“Where?”

“Lots of places, I guess.”

“With who?”

I look over at Harrison as an answer. Pix gasps then breaks out in laughter. The sound carries even over the music. He wraps me in a tight hug which I return. I hang on longer than necessary, knowing it’ll be a long time before I get to hug Pix again. Somehow, it feels like it’ll be the last time.

When he pulls back, Pix cups my face in his hands. They smell of sex. “God, baby. You’re a groupie! Who knew!”

I chuckle and fight back tears burning in my eyes. “I guess I am. I _am_ getting paid though.”

“So, you’re their…”

“Personal rent boy,” I finish for him.

Pix is speechless, at least until he catches a glimpse of Harrison out of the corner of his eye. “Have they fucked you yet?”

“No,” I confess. “Tom _did_ look me over though. Nude.” I sneak the last part in, knowing it’ll drive Pix mad.

Sure enough, he squeals. “Jesus Cocks! You’ve wanted that for, what, three years?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Three years and I finally get to meet Tom Holland.”

“And the other guys? They as hot as their pictures?”

“Yeah. They’re all sexy. Sam’s kind of a dick.”

“Probably jealous you’re hopping on his brother’s meat and not his.”

The comment makes me stop. Is this agreement just for Tom? Am I only allowed to be with him? Could that actually be why Sam was upset?

Suddenly, a third voice joins our celebration. “We really ought to head out.” Harrison.

Pix looks at the keyboardist in awe. He doesn’t say anything but he does drool. I wipe at the spittle on his chin and tell him he’ll catch flies that way. It’s one of the few mannerisms I’ve kept from my life before.

I hug Pix again. This time, it feels like the world will come to an end if I let go. Miraculously, it doesn’t. When I pull back, Pix is crying. I know I am too.

“I love you, Con Man,” he whines. “You write, okay?”

“Every day,” I promise.

With one last glance, I turn my back on Pix and follow Harrison through the stage door. Just as it shuts behind us, I can make out Pix’s screams of, “Get the best dick of your life!”

Harrison actually laughs at this once we’re in the silence of the hallway. I look at him quizzically and he shoots back a face that says, “What?”

“Sorry about him,” I say, relaxing my face.

Harrison shrugs. “What’s there to be sorry for? You’ve got a good friend. One with good ideas.”

“Yeah, I do. Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” Haz says.

I did.

“But what do you mean?” I ask.

Harrison cocks an eyebrow at me. “I’ve got fifty bucks. What do you think it means?”

Two minutes later, Harrison is leaning against the hallway wall and I’m on my knees beside him. I languidly pump his cock, feeling each vein throb in my grasp. It doesn’t take long at all for him to leak. What precum releases I use as lube. Soon, the hallway fills with the echoing sounds of his slick length. His breathy moans play backup.

“You like that?” I ask smoothly.

Harrison shakes his head haphazardly. His eyes are glued shut and his face is beet-red. “Don’t talk.”

So I don’t. For the entirety of the hand job, I’m quiet. After a while, it gets a little boring so I count the veins on Harrison’s cock. Five in total, one that protrudes. It’s the one I pay the most attention to, gently sliding my thumb over it. The act makes Harrison spasm. Every so often, his body lurches and he thrusts into my hand. It becomes a pattern that grows shorter the longer he does it.

Before I know it, Harrison is fucking my hand. His breaths become shorter and his dick becomes wetter. He doubles over and cries out and his cum releases. Five ropes dart out on the tile floor, splattering in one large puddle. The drizzle that follows coats my hand. I promptly lick it clean, noting a sweet flavor to Harrison’s cum, before standing.

He looks at me confidently while buckling his jeans. “Thanks for that.”

“Hey, I’m just providing a service,” I remind him.

“That you are. A damn good service.” He fishes a bill from his back pocket and deposits it in my hand. I tuck the crumbled fifty in with the rest in my waistband.

Finally done back up, Harrison starts down the hall, towards the back of the building. “The guys will be waiting. We ought to get a move on.”


	7. Pix's House

The Holland Road Bros. tour bus is, for a lack of better words, unimpressive. When Harrison leads me through the nightclub’s rear exit and into a spacious alleyway, I expect to be greeted by something extravagant. Instead, the bus is a simple blue and silver color with black-tinted windows. One of the cargo compartments near the tires is open. A man I don’t recognize is hauling black cases into the compartment – drum pieces, I realize quickly.

Inside the bus, the décor is rather the same, save for the evidence of four adolescent men. On either side of the thin aisle are leather loveseats, navy blue with drawers beneath them. Next to these, inching further back into the bus are a booth and table, and a small kitchenette. The latter is the worst victim of the Holland Road Bros.’ lifestyle. Empty cans of _Chef Boyardee_ lay discarded on the small counter space. A small cabinet above the stove is ajar. And on the stove, a few bottles of _Pepsi_ are losing their fizz because the caps aren’t screwed on.

Nestled into the booth are Harry and Sam. They talk and guffaw over a card game – Rummy, I think. It looks like Sam is winning if his smug gloating is any indication. Harry doesn’t seem phased by it though. In fact, I’ve noticed he hasn’t seemed phased by much of anything since the Holland Road Bros. found me in their dressing room closet.

“Really, guys?” Harrison says suddenly, cutting my thoughts short. The twins turn to face their keyboardist dumbly. “You’ve been here, what, fifteen minutes, and you’ve already made it gross.”

“Always the saint, never the sinner,” Sam mumbles as he returns to his hand at play.

Harrison visibly sighs, his chest heaving out then folding in. “I’m not cleaning it again.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

With a final groan, Harrison disappears into the back of the tour bus. For a moment, I nearly follow him before thinking better of it. The beds are probably back there and it would make me seem odd to follow someone I’ve just met into a place like that. Instead, I take a seat on one of the loveseats, the one opposite of the booth, and try to keep my eyes cast down. They keep managing to find themselves on the twins though.

I can’t help but study them. For two people who are supposed to be exactly the same, Sam and Harry couldn’t be more different. Sam is open. He speaks his mind. He carries himself in a way that screams, “Yeah, I’ll do what I want. If you don’t like it, go fuck yourself.” Meanwhile, Harry is continuously closed in. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to. His head is down and his shoulders slump. The only time I’ve seen him open is on stage when he has that bass in his hand. He can’t carry a bass around though. Just like Jojo…

Finally, after what feels like hours of sitting alone, not being acknowledged by either twin, Harrison remerges from the beds. He’s dressed differently now in a pair of athletic shorts and a white wifebeater. Tom is right behind him in a black, form-fitting tee shirt and black jeans. He doesn’t look my way as he settles into the opposite loveseat. In fact, he doesn’t seem to notice any of us – me, the driver who has now hopped into his seat, or his bandmates. He’s too focused on a cellular phone that he pulls from deep inside one of the leather cushions.

After clicking some buttons, he presses the brick to his ear and waits. A moment passes and he comes to life, talking animatedly at someone none of us can see. I try to listen in but it’s difficult to make out the one-sided conversation when Sam is still gloating in the booth and the driver is starting the bus’s engine.

Eventually, Tom ends the phone call and finally looks my way. He smiles evenly. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. In truth, I’m nervous as hell. I don’t know what’s to come over the next few weeks. I try to scold myself and wash the bad ideas away. I’m just here to be a toy for the guys. It’s not as if I’m going to die or something drastic.

“You’ll get used to it,” Tom continues, nodding at our surroundings. “Tour life isn’t so bad. And we won’t always be on this bus. We get motel rooms a lot.”

“Tonight?” Sam pipes up, hopeful.

Harrison answers, his voice dry and bland as he flips through a car magazine. “Can’t tonight. We need to be in the next city by the afternoon. And stopping for Connor’s things is going to slow us down.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. All my belongings. Did I expect I’d survive weeks on the road without a change of clothes or a toothbrush or even condoms?

Tom looks from Harrison to me. “Where’s your place?”

“I stay with my best friend,” I tell him, then give him the address.

Up front, the driver seems to know exactly where he’s going. Maybe he’s been in this city before. Or maybe he’s just one of those people who’s a natural navigator. Either way, we pull up the curb opposite Pix’s house. Before the bus can be put into park, I’m heading for the front exit. I make it down the steps and stop. Across the street, facing away from the tour bus but on Pix’s curb, is David Bellthorne’s car. If he sees me, I’m dead.

Tom ambles up behind me. I can feel the weight of him pressed against me as he whispers, “You okay?”

I shake my head slightly. “I can’t be seen by who’s in that car.”

I expect a mound of questions from the rock star but get none. Instead, Tom nods solemnly and tells me to follow his lead. After squeezing around me, he manually opens the bus door and steps into the chill of the night. I follow him and hurriedly race to the back of the bus, disappearing into the shadows. Here, Tom grabs my hand and tells me to stay close.

We maneuver through the dark, our only guidance from the streetlights above, and even these we do our best to avoid. Careful not to be seen by David or any neighbors, Tom leads me around yards and through a back alley until we’re finally upon Pix’s backdoor. Just as is the one attached to him, it isn’t difficult to get through Pix’s backdoor. Just a jiggle of the knob in the right direction detaches the latch and allows me entrance.

“Alright, you keep watch here,” I tell Tom before slipping through the door.

Inside Pix’s house, everything is as I remember from the morning. I can’t really see anything but I can feel. The framed photos of Mapplethorpe knockoffs line the walls. A bust of Marilyn sits on a nearby bookshelf. As I hurry down the hallway, to our shared bedroom, I nearly trip over a bundle of something. I quickly recall it as the skirt Pix threw at me earlier this morning when he asked for something “femme” from my wardrobe and then claimed purple “wasn’t his color.”

In our bedroom, I make quick work packing any clothes I think we’ll be necessary – tee shirts, jean shorts, a couple pairs of sweatpants. I even toss in some sexier items with my normal underwear and socks, hoping Tom will enjoy the treat.

After the duffle bag from beneath our bed is filled, I head into the bathroom. There are no windows in this room so I shut the door and flip on the light. I examine myself in the mirror. Dark circles paint the underneath of my eyes. My face is splotched red with chill. I smile and find my teeth a tad bit yellow. I make a mental note to stop smoking but that’s not going to happen.

I grab what I need from the bathroom. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Hairbrush. Hairspray. I open the medicine cabinet last and grab the diaper rash ointment – leather pants are a bitch. Another item there catches my eye. I grab it, an orange bottle of white pills. The label on the bottle says they’re for Pix but prescribed two years ago. I shove them in my duffle bag.

Back outside, I find Tom picking mindlessly at a patch of grass. When he sees me, he’s immediately on his feet checking me over. I’m not sure what harm he thinks I could’ve gotten into in my own house but I’m not about to turn away the attention.

When he’s satisfied, Tom takes my hand and leads me back to the bus the same way we left it. We haul ass to make it inside. Once there, the driver wastes no time kicking the bus into gear and peeling out onto the street. As we start forward, I relax against the loveseat and stare out the window. Pix’s house is before me. It’ll be a long time before I see it again and I want to commit it to memory. I don’t get to stare at the house long though. In fact, I don’t get to stare at the window for more than ten seconds before someone catches my eye and I drop down in my seat.

David Bellthorne. I saw him and I know damn well he saw me. I just hope that smile splayed across his lips was one of sincerity and goodbye. It’s David though, and it wasn’t.


	8. Late Night Dining

Two hours. That’s how long I sit in silence, with my own thoughts. Two hours of images of David Bellthorne, his crimes, and his punishments. Two hours of highway road signs and mile markers that do nothing to conceal said images. Two hours of dread. It’s an overwhelming feeling and by the time the two hours have passed, it feels like I’ve been trapped with my mind for a lifetime.

Sam is the one to break the silence. As we’re passing a group of signs adorned with restaurant names and the label **EXIT 77** , he announces, “I’m hungry. When are we stopping for something to eat?”

Tom looks up from an issue of _Teen Beat_ with himself on the cover. “There’s snacks in the cabinet.”

“Real food,” Sam challenges. Then, before Tom can say anything else and because we’re seconds from passing it, Sam cries to the bus driver, “Take this exit!”

The driver does, hitting the brake and swerving in just the nick of time. As he turns off the exit, I lurch on the loveseat, nearly toppling on Harrison who mindlessly scribbles out lyrics in a notebook. He doesn’t notice or, if he does, pretends not to.

A few minutes off the exit, we come upon a mildly lively town. There are a few restaurants and a gas station. A couple of odd and end stores are filtered in but they’re all closed at this hour. I think I see an apartment complex but I can’t be sure. There’s nothing else though – this is clearly a town you pass through, not stop.

It takes some arguing but the band eventually settles on getting _McDonald’s._ The bus is too big to fit in the restaurant’s parking lot so the driver parks across the street, next to an abandoned strip mall, and we cross the street.

Inside _McDonald’s_ , the twins and Harrison hurry up to the ordering counter and barf out what they want. The girl at the counter – she looks no older than me – struggles with collecting it all but I think she gets it in the end. Or maybe she doesn’t. As she passes back their change, she drops some on the register and curses. I watch her carefully as she picks it up. When her fingers brush Harrison’s palm, she inhales sharply.

_Ah._ I realize. _She’s a fan._

Her restrictions with work probably prevent her from saying as much. I’d reckon with this city, if that’s what you want to call it, being off the main highway, the girl sees a lot of famous people. Were she to freak out about every single one, the restaurant wouldn’t function.

After their change is finally collected, the guys head for a booth in the back of the restaurant, near the bathrooms. Tom motions me then to the counter where the girl is practically shaking.

Tom smiles at her comfortingly. “Hey, how are you, love?”

“G-Good,” she stutters out. “H-How are y-you?”

“Doing pretty good.” Then, to me, “You know what you want?”

I stare up at the menu above our heads. The white font seems to bleed with the red and yellow backgrounds. I can barely make out any of it. Instead of struggling, I just say what I said the last time I came to _McDonald’s_. “The _Filet O’ Fish_ value pack is good.”

“Okay,” Tom says to the cashier. “Two of those then. And I guess add a hot fudge sundae to that.”

The cashier touches some keys on the checkout counter before saying, “That’ll be five-seventy-eight.”

“Oh, actually—” I mean to tell the girl that our orders are separate but Tom cuts me off by handing her a wad of cash.

“I got it,” he says.

I eye him. “Tom, you can’t—”

“ _I said_ …” His voice is heavy then light. “I got it.”

He smiles at the cashier as she hands back his change – all ten cents of it. He drops the dime into the charity box in front of the register then pulls me to the side where we’ll collect ours and the guys’ orders. The entire time we wait is spent in silence. When the trays are finally slid across the counter by the young cashier, Tom tells her, “If you have anything you want signed, I’ll be happy to after I eat.”

The girl turns pink. “My, uh…” She glances over her shoulder. “My manager says I’m not allowed to at work.” I was right.

“So, take a break.” Tom shrugs then winks.

We trail off into the restaurant to find the rest of the band. When we join them in the booth, we find Sam and Harry fighting over who has just won a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Harrison is trying to keep out of it but he can’t stop laughing when Sam accuses Harry of being a liar and tells him, “This is the reason you’re a virgin, Hare-Bare.”

“Knock it off,” Tom scolds, sliding in next to the youngest of the twins. He’s smiling though. “You lot can fight over that. I’ve got Connor’s and mine.”

After handing off the tray of his bandmates’ orders, Tom turns to me and offers me my value pack. It’s prepared as cute (yes, I’m calling food cute) as ever in it’s little cardboard box. A drink (coke, naturally), the _Filet O’ Fish_ , and a small order of fries.

“Thanks,” I tell him in a hushed tone. “I could’ve paid.”

“Remember what I said back at the club?” he asks.

I do. _I promise you’re in good hands with me._

“Thanks,” I repeat before taking a couple of French fries.

We eat in near-silence for a while. The only sounds are Sam and Harry’s bickering and Harrison’s occasional groan directed at the twin’s conversation. In the time it takes them to eat their meals, I’ve only finished my fries and a bite of my sandwich. My soda hasn’t even been touched.

“Not thirsty?” Tom nods at my cup.

I shake my head. “Guess not.”

“Well, I hope you still want ice cream.” He hands over the sundae I’d completely forgotten about. I thought he’d ordered it for himself and say as such. “I wouldn’t finish a whole one. Never been a huge fan of the stuff. I _will_ try a bite though.”

He searches the tray for the spoon and hands it to me, a frown creasing his brow. “I could have sworn I asked for two spoons.”

“You didn’t,” I affirm. “I don’t mind though.”

I rip the spoon from its plastic packaging and scoop a glob of the sundae, making sure to keep a lot of the chocolate on top. I hand it off to Tom then, expecting him to grab the handle. Instead, he leans in and accepts the shovel in his mouth. Our eyes lock as he tastes the ice cream then pulls back, licking his lips deliberately slow. A part of me feels I know what he’s doing. To test it, I stick the spoon in my mouth without collecting any more of the sundae. Sure enough, Tom’s eyes shrink into slits and he bites his bottom lip.

“Oh, hell, yeah!” Sam cries suddenly, and any sexual tension Tom and I have just built dissolves away.

“What?” Tom asks, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Sam points out the window. “A liquor store.”

“Great.” Tom turns to me. “Now, you’ll get to see everyone drunk.”

“Sounds like a party,” I say, smirking.


End file.
